


Like Comfort, Like Solace, Like Relief

by areyoumiserableyet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Housewarming Party, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire have a housewarming party.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 107
Collections: Enjoltaire Games 2020





	Like Comfort, Like Solace, Like Relief

Enjolras is shuffling around their new loft, fixing this and that, setting and resetting the huge, specially-ordered dining table. It’s stunning, made of rich, unblemished walnut, and though it technically fits ten, there’s enough space to squeeze in a few extra chairs when the situation warrants. Like this evening, for example, when eleven of their closest friends will crowd around it, all lighthearted elbows and loving touches and silly squabbles over who sits where, all present to warm Enjolras and Grantaire’s new home. 

Their guests are set to arrive in less than twenty minutes, and Enjolras is feeling inexplicably nervous even though he’s probably seen every single one of them - individually, or in varying combinations of twos and threes - at least once in the last few weeks.

Enjolras looks around their new home anxiously, at the shiny metals and sharp lines, at the steel-framed, factory windows and the cable railing along the staircase, sectioning off the second-floor bedroom. He knows the loft - with its industrial piping and cement floors - is a far cry from the beautiful, lived-in warmth of their previous residence, knows he could never hope to replicate something that took a decade of memories and countless coats of paint to create. But, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry his friends will take one look around the place and know, deep down, how truly selfish Enjolras can be.

The thing is, he and Grantaire have lived with one another for years already, sharing a tiny room in the house on Maple St. The place technically belongs to Musichetta, though it’s been home to every single one of their friends at some point over the last ten years, people flowing in and out with the tides of life, riding the highs of opportunity or plunging head first into new love, only to return following breakups and job losses and relapses. There was always something bittersweet about someone coming back, many of them climbing the stairs with heavy, wet feet, some of them chest deep in crushing ocean blues, some of them drowning entirely. A little waterlog never mattered in the end, though, not when the house on Maple was a safe, dry place, and there was always,  _ always _ someone with gentle hands waiting to drape a blanket over your shoulders and pour hot drinks until the shivering stopped.

Grantaire had lived there from the beginning, back when it was just him and Bossuet and Musichetta in a place much too large for only three people, let alone when two of them slept in the same bed. Joly showed up on the doorstep soon after, propping up a bleeding, limping Bossuet who had evidently attempted to haggle with the cute stranger in the produce aisle over the last pint of strawberries. As the story goes, Bossuet claimed he could clear the wet floor sign with an ‘Olympic-worthy’ hurdle. If successful, he wagered, the fruit was rightfully his, and Joly, apparently seeing this as a fair deal, shook on it. (It wasn’t until Bossuet had already taken off in a sprint that either of them thought to consider the, you know,  _ wet floor. _ ) 

Musichetta had insisted that Joly stay for dinner anyway, wanting to thank them for getting her boyfriend home in (relatively) one piece. They’d talked and laughed and eaten strawberries with Grantaire’s homemade crème fraîche for dessert, and soon enough, Joly had charmed the pants off all three of them - metaphorically speaking, that is, at least where Grantaire was concerned. 

For a long time, home for Grantaire had meant the four of them cuddled up together on the sofa in that big, old house, though the definition expanded, after a while, to sharing his room with Enjolras, any number of their friends just on the other side of the door. 

The point is, Enjolras  _ knows _ how hard it was for Grantaire to move out, knows he probably misses living there much more than he lets on. Enjolras knows -  _ he does _ \- how selfish it was for him to ask Grantaire to leave the only home he’s ever known, a home filled with laughter and sentiment and his most favorite people, to move into a cold, unfeeling apartment with only Enjolras for company.

It was just that - when Jehan did it six months prior in order to rent a charming studio in the arts district, Enjolras’s mind had started turning. It wasn’t that he didn’t love living with his friends, because he did. There were so many beautiful, wonderful aspects to that kind of communal living, of always having someone nearby and willing to grab lunch, or laugh at your new bit, or talk you out of doing that dumb thing. 

It was just that - sometimes, Enjolras wanted to have really loud sex.

He wanted to have really loud, dirty sex with his boyfriend, and he wanted to take hour long showers with the water turned as hot as he could stand it, and he wanted to eat cereal in the kitchen butt ass naked. For God’s sake, he wanted to be able to slam the bedroom door after a stupid, pointless argument and not have six pairs of eyes giving him unimpressed looks over breakfast the next morning. 

Enjolras wanted all of those petty indulgences you don’t get to have when you live in a house full of people, but he had real reasons too - like the fact that he’s starting grad school in the fall and could use the peace and quiet for his studies. Or that Grantaire was offered a curator position at the modern art museum downtown six months ago and that now, instead of a 45-minute commute involving both the train  _ and _ a bus, he can just walk to work. But, mostly, because he and Grantaire both just turned 30, and because they’ve been dating for over six years, and because Enjolras wants  _ more _ .

Now, they’ve been in their new place for a little over a month, and Enjolras has admittedly let himself become sick with worry. He’s been watching Grantaire closely, looking for signs of unhappiness or regret, and so far, Grantaire has been doing a good job at hiding it. Enjolras is worried, though, that once the apartment is full of their friends, full of their warm, collective presence and their smiling faces, that the difference will be too obvious to ignore. 

“Enj,” Grantaire’s voice cuts through the noise in Enjolras’s brain then, and he snaps his head up to look at his boyfriend. He’s wearing a smart burgundy dress shirt, but he’s pushed up the sleeves so they’re bunched messily at his elbows. The tips of his curls are still damp from their joint-shower, and he’s standing at the kitchen island, chopping fresh herbs for the galette he’s making. He’d called Enjolras from the farmer’s market at an ungodly hour that morning, wanting to brag about the heirloom tomatoes he’d scored and to ask if he could make a last minute adjustment to the menu in their honor. Enjolras, who doesn’t believe in getting out of bed before 10AM, had simply muttered a few choice words and hung up on him. (He made it up to Grantaire later that day, though, when he was considerably more awake and they were both significantly more naked.)

Now, the sight of him is as devastating as ever, and Enjolras has a sudden, dizzying urge to jump his bones and ride him hard into the kitchen floor. Some of that must show on Enjolras’s face, because Grantaire is wearing a knowing smirk when he adds, “Stop fussing.”

“I’m not fussing,” Enjolras huffs indignantly, dropping the throw pillow he just fluffed for a third time onto the sofa. “I just hate feeling useless,” he explains, sliding into the kitchen and coming up behind Grantaire to wrap his arms around his waist and rest his chin over his shoulder. 

“You can help me then,” Grantaire says, nudging Enjolras’s jaw with a gentle shrug.

“Me?” Enjolras asks incredulously. “You never let me help with the food.”

“Well, I am now,” Grantaire replies, matter-of-fact. He passes Enjolras the knife he was using, and he accepts it, eyeing the sharp glint of the blade warily. “Think you can handle mincing some garlic?” 

Enjolras scoffs. “Of course I can.”

Grantaire smiles at him, wiping his hands on a towel before throwing it over his shoulder. Enjolras watches as he digs around in one of the produce bags from the farmer’s market and pulls out a head of fresh garlic. 

He barely manages to catch the thing when Grantaire tosses it at him, but the second it’s in his hand, Enjolras is already trying to come up with a believable excuse for why he can’t help Grantaire with the cooking after all. 

Because, well, Enjolras has no fucking idea how to mince garlic, and Grantaire -  _ the bastard _ \- knows Enjolras has no fucking idea how to mince garlic. He fingers the vegetable for a few seconds, weighing his options, and next to him, Grantaire clears his throat. Enjolras glances up to find his boyfriend watching him expectantly, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What?” Enjolras says. “Are you planning to supervise?”

Grantaire shrugs innocently. “Just making sure you don’t have any questions.” 

“I got it, Taire,” Enjolras says, because he hates admitting defeat almost more than Grantaire loves being contrary. He refocuses his attention on the garlic, but Grantaire, of course, shows no inclination to move despite Enjolras’s insistence. “Can you please go do something else?” Enjolras asks after a moment, his voice sharp with faux cheerfulness. 

“Why?” Grantaire laughs. “So you can Google ‘how to mince garlic’ as soon as I turn around?” 

Enjolras gasps, affronted, but he’s unable to keep up the illusion of offense for very long because Grantaire is wrapping his big arms around him and pressing warm kisses against his neck. 

“Here, let me show you,” Grantaire says, and then he does just that. His voice is low and sweet in Enjolras’s ear as he walks him through the steps patiently, showing him the proper way to separate and peel the cloves, how to use the side of the knife to crush them before mincing. It’s not until he’s telling Enjolras to keep the tip of the knife against the cutting board as he gives the garlic a ‘rough chop’ that Enjolras realizes Grantaire is distracting him. 

Which, really, should have been obvious from the beginning. Because there’s probably about ten different things Grantaire could be doing right now to prepare for the party, but instead he’s teaching Enjolras how to mince garlic in that relaxed but efficient way of his that says  _ you can do this _ , that says  _ trust me, I know what I’m talking about, _ and he’s doing it for no other reason than because Enjolras would be on-edge and fretting about the apartment otherwise. 

The distraction is working, of course, because Grantaire knows Enjolras better than anyone, and while he may be stubborn, the self-assuredness is feigned in jest most of the time. In reality, Enjolras is the first one to admit there’s a never-ending list of things he doesn’t know, and he’s always eager to learn something new, especially from Grantaire,  _ especially  _ when there’s a challenge involved. Enjolras has got his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he works, and he doesn’t even realize how focused he is until-

“Marry me,” Grantaire says suddenly, and Enjolras’s heart stops. 

“ _ What? _ ” he chokes out, nearly dropping the knife in his hand.

Because -  _ what?  _ Surely, that isn’t-

There’s a knock at the door. 

“I’ll get it.” Grantaire grins before pressing a quick kiss to Enjolras’s neck and darting off to the front door. Enjolras, meanwhile, isn’t moving - is barely  _ breathing _ \- because he’s 99% sure that Grantaire just asked him to marry him, and that doesn’t make much sense, does it? 

Grantaire - kind, teasing, handsome,  _ perfect  _ Grantaire - standing barefoot in their kitchen and proposing to Enjolras over a bulb of garlic does not fit the unhappy, resentful image he’s created in his head over the last several weeks. It doesn’t match the guilt sitting sour in his belly or the shame pressing hard against his chest. 

If Enjolras weren’t in such a state of shock, he would kick himself for being such an  _ idiot _ . 

Enjolras remains frozen in place as the familiar voices of his friends suddenly filter through the apartment, their loud, enthusiastic hellos echoing down the hall to the kitchen. Combeferre appears in front of him first, and Enjolras almost startles when he sees him, his mind still whirring a hundred miles per hour. 

“Courfeyrac isn’t speaking to me,” he says, his tone wry as he sets down a large charcuterie board onto the counter. It’s a gorgeous spread, complete with piles of delicious cheeses, dried fruits, and thinly-sliced meats, ramekins filled with shiny olives and fresh cherries. Courfeyrac most definitely picked it up at one of those fancy gourmet markets, but the rest of them will ooh and ahh and pretend he made it anyway, just so he keeps splurging on the good shit. (He’d once made the mistake of trying to pass off a forty-dollar  _ Cheesecake Factory _ cheesecake as his own, and now he’s required to “make” one for their holiday party every year.)

“Oh?” Enjolras asks, distracted by the background chatter of Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s voices, softer now and sounding like they’re still near the front door. Enjolras cranes his neck in that direction as subtly as possible, suddenly desperate to see Grantaire’s face. 

“I may or may not have watched season three of _The_ _West Wing_ without him,” Combeferre deadpans, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them off with the hem of his henley. When Enjolras finally gets his brain to focus on his friend, he sees a small, amused smile on his lips.

“You monster,” Enjolras says with his own smirk. He resumes his task of mincing the garlic, trying to follow Grantaire’s instructions but not paying nearly enough attention to his own movements. He can feel Combeferre’s curious eyes flicker over his person for a moment, his brow pinched slightly as if sensing something off about his best friend. Enjolras tries to steady his erratic heart, but it’s a lost cause.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac round the corner from the entryway, Grantaire busy telling Courfeyrac a story as the other man listens with a half-smile on his face, as if already anticipating the punchline. Grantaire is gesturing wildly with his hands like he always does and something flutters in Enjolras’s belly as he watches. 

“Ow! Shit!” Enjolras hisses suddenly, feeling a sharp undeniable sting across his finger. He drops the knife he’d been using onto the countertop and shakes his hand a few times, like he’s trying to dislodge the pain. He pauses his ministrations to peer at his bleeding digit, where he’d apparently tried to mince his own fingertip. 

“You okay, babe?” Grantaire’s voice says, suddenly very close. When Enjolras looks up, he’s standing on the other side of the kitchen island, frowning down at Enjolras’s hands in concern. 

“I’m fine,” he says, just as the doorbell rings. Grantaire glances in its direction for a moment before turning back to look at Enjolras’s face. “I’m  _ fine _ ,” he repeats. “Get the door.”

“Don’t worry, R.” Combeferre laughs next to him, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the wrist of Enjolras’s injured hand. “I’ll patch him up for you.”

Once Grantaire is out of sight, Combeferre grabs his messenger bag and retrieves the small first aid kit that he thankfully keeps with him at all times. Enjolras and Grantaire probably have one of their own somewhere around here, though there’s a great possibility that it’s tucked away in one of the cardboard boxes still crowding what is supposed to be Enjolras’s home office.

Combeferre nods at the counter behind Enjolras, and he hoists himself onto it easily, his denim-clad ass coming to rest somewhere between the blender and a nest of mixing bowls Grantaire had pulled from the cabinet and forgotten to replace. Combeferre moves to stand in front of him, and Enjolras is only barely taller than him even from his countertop vantage point, so the fact does little to detract from the way his fluffy-sock clad feet dangle above the floorboards.

“You alright? You look kind of spaced out and you’re all jumpy,” Combeferre says as he wipes the cut on Enjolras’s finger with an antiseptic wipe. 

“Just excited for tonight,” Enjolras says as Combeferre squeezes out a tiny bit of ointment before securing everything with a bandaid. His answer is only partly true, but Enjolras just can’t bring himself to tell anyone about Grantaire’s proposal before he’s even had a chance to  _ answer _ the man, nevermind that he’s crawling out of his own skin with anticipation and nervousness and something like ridiculous, breathless happiness. 

Either way, it’s a good excuse, and Combeferre simply smiles and bumps a fist against Enjolras’s knee in response. 

“Give it to me straight, doc,” Grantaire says from behind them, and they both turn to see Jehan trailing after the evening’s co-host holding a giant potted plant. They deposit it in the corner of the living room, and Enjolras waves hello with a small smile. “Is he gonna make it?” 

“It was touch and go there for a moment, but I think he’ll pull through,” Combeferre jokes, gathering up the trash from Enjolras’s emergency procedure and sliding past Grantaire to greet Jehan with a kiss on either cheek. 

Enjolras is about to hop down from the counter, but Grantaire crowds close to him before he can, resting his huge hands on Enjolras’s thighs, his palms hot and heavy even through his jeans. 

“Still in one piece?” he asks softly, and Enjolras knows he’s asking about more than his finger. He looks a little troubled, so Enjolras opens his mouth to reassure him, but before he can respond, the doorbell is ringing again.

“I’ll get it,” Enjolras says, pressing his forehead against Grantaire’s for a second before jumping down from the counter. He runs a friendly hand across Courfeyrac’s back as he passes him, and he doesn’t bother checking the peephole before pulling the door open to Marius and Cosette’s smiling faces. 

“Hi, honey!” Cosette positively beams, throwing her arms around Enjolras’s neck and pulling him into a tight hug. Next to her, Marius is holding a rather large gift bag in one hand and a white box that Enjolras can only assume contains one of Cosette’s famous key lime pies in the other, while tucked under his arm is an expensive-looking bottle of wine that’s probably a gift from Cosette’s father. Despite these burdens, he’s grinning, and Enjolras reaches out to squeeze his arm in greeting.

“Hey, you two,” he says as he helps them out of their jackets, hanging them on the hall tree next to the others. There’s another knock before he’s even left the entryway and when Enjolras opens the door again, it’s to find Bahorel grinning back at him, Feuilly and Eponine standing close behind.

“Trio’s on their way up,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and practically body-checking Enjolras as he comes through the doorway.

“Eggplant parm, baby,” Feuilly says by way of greeting, holding up the covered bakeware he’s carrying until it’s almost eye-level to them both. Behind him, Eponine laughs and rolls her eyes, shouldering her way past him and into the apartment. Enjolras, meanwhile, can do nothing but laugh with her and think about how much he loves these wonderful, ridiculous people.

By the time Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta walk in, hands full of delicious-smelling food, there are too many jackets to hang on the coat rack, so Enjolras gathers a few and takes them upstairs to deposit them onto the bed. His friends’ voices carry to the second floor, and Enjolras lets himself just listen to the sound and breathe for a moment, leaning over the railing to take in the scene below him.

Jehan is sitting on the arm of the sofa, one leg folded gracefully over the other, as Bahorel stands at their shoulder, showing them something on his phone that’s making them giggle behind their hand. At the other end of the couch, Cosette and Eponine are pressed close together, Eponine speaking quickly as Cosette listens with rapt attention, her mouth dropped open like what she’s hearing is both shocking and delightful. Combeferre, when Enjolras spots him, is in the kitchen with Feuilly, and he’s pouring them both a glass of red wine that Grantaire no doubt picked out. 

Enjolras smiles as he watches them - these kind, loving people scattered around his new apartment, content in a way that only ever happens when they’re together - and at the center of it all, glowing in a way Enjolras can’t contribute to any earthly reason, is Grantaire.

Joly and Musichetta are standing before him, her hands framing either side of Grantaire’s face as he lets the two of them dote on him goodnaturedly. Bossuet comes up behind him and clamps his hands down on Grantaire’s shoulders until he turns and pulls his oldest friend into a tight hug. 

At that moment, Grantaire’s eyes flicker up to Enjolras’s from the first floor and he lights up when he catches him watching, his face breaking out into a slow grin that makes Enjolras flush under the collar of his shirt. 

His proposal is replaying in Enjolras’s mind incessantly, and the pure adoration on his boyfriend’s face is almost too much right then because  _ god,  _ all Enjolras can think about is how much he wants to marry him. 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about marriage before, it’s just that, now that the idea is out there, Enjolras can’t ignore how it makes him feel. He can’t ignore the butterflies suddenly flying around his stomach anytime he thinks about Grantaire referring to him as his  _ husband,  _ can’t ignore how desperately he wants to do the same. 

And now, he thinks maybe Grantaire wants that too, though, granted, he isn’t entirely sure if he was serious about the proposal or not, doesn’t know if it was a joke or if Enjolras had even  _ heard _ him right. Maybe he hadn’t said “marry me” afterall, maybe -  _ fuck -  _ maybe Enjolras’s anxiety-ridden brain had  _ hallucinated _ the whole thing. 

This line of thinking leaves Enjolras feeling a little nauseous, so he decides to rejoin the party and make his rounds, wanting to greet each of his friends individually and thank them for coming. Grantaire brings out Courfeyrac’s charcuterie board and places it on the coffee table as Enjolras comes down the stairs, and the whole party makes a big show of how impressed they are, Courfeyrac preening a lot less than the first twenty times this has happened, but preening nonetheless. Grantaire wraps his fingers around Enjolras’s wrist and kisses the top of his head on his way back to the kitchen, and Enjolras practically melts under the attention.

As soon as he’s had a chance to chat with each of his friends, Enjolras is pushed into one of the dining chairs, Courfeyrac shoving he and Combeferre’s housewarming gift against Enjolras’s chest eagerly.

It’s the  _ Kama Sutra _ , because of course it is, and Enjolras blushes when Courfeyrac comments on the “possibilities” of he and Grantaire new-found privacy. The gift bag also contains some beautiful framed photographs of them and their friends that were surely Combeferre’s addition, and Enjolras makes eye contact with him from across the room and smiles gratefully. 

In addition to the book and the frames and Jehan’s enormous houseplant, they’re also gifted a copper bar tool set from Bahorel, a gorgeous ashtray (and a bag of weed for Grantaire) from Eponine, and three hand-painted fans from Feuilly, which he immediately offers to hang for them because he knows neither Enjolras nor Grantaire are very handy people and because that’s just the kind of guy Feuilly is. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta have gotten them a hilariously vulgar welcome mat, and Grantaire practically chokes when Enjolras holds it up so he can read it from the kitchen where he’s busy grating some fresh parmesan. 

When Enjolras opens the final gift - a cozy knit blanket that Cosette and Marius hand made together - both of them blush profusely at the praise it receives, and Joly immediately cuddles up underneath it on the couch. Bahorel and Eponine, on the other hand, slink outside for a smoke break while Musichetta and Combeferre join Grantaire in the kitchen to help finish preparing the meal.

Gavroche FaceTimes his sister from his college dorm room at one point, and he gets passed around from person to person until Courfeyrac commandeers the phone to give him the ‘grand tour’ of the loft, narrating the experience  _ MTV Cribs _ style, and he’s wine-drunk and giddy by the time he gets to the obligatory bit about where the magic happens.

For the most part, Enjolras manages to keep himself distracted from his earlier anxieties, from the new nervousness following the possible proposal, though he does find himself shooting involuntary looks at Grantaire as he moves around the kitchen. The man catches him enough times that he starts to look concerned. 

Which is why, Enjolras assumes, Grantaire finally corners him as he’s digging around in one of the still-packed boxes in his home office.

“Hey,” Grantaire says when he walks in, and Enjolras startles slightly from where he’s elbow-deep in the box marked  _ ENJOLRAS  _ \-  _ BOOKS.  _ He’s looking for a book Marius had asked to borrow back before their move, but it’s more of an excuse than anything, an excuse to separate himself and quiet his rapid thoughts.

“Hey,” he echos, looking up at his boyfriend to give him a small smile.

“Whatcha doin?” Grantaire asks. 

“Looking for a book for Marius,” Enjolras replies, returning to his search.

“You sure you’re not hiding?” Grantaire asks, and that makes Enjolras pause.

“Why would I be hiding?” he manages to ask. 

“I mean, I can’t say I really know  _ why _ , but I know you were worried about tonight,” Grantaire explains, and when Enjolras doesn’t deny it, he continues. “I think everyone is having a good time, though, don’t you? And I think they like the place, you know, if you were worried about that, and the food is almost done, so-”

“It wasn’t -” Enjolras interrupts because Grantaire sounds nervous and unsure, and he’s rambling in a way that only happens when he’s worried he’s done something wrong, and Enjolras can’t possibly have that. Not when it’s so far from the truth and when Grantaire has been the only thing keeping Enjolras afloat for the past several hours - hell, for the past several  _ years. _ “I wasn’t worried about any of that,” Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire looks relieved for a second, before his expression slides into an even deeper scowl.

“Then what-?”

“I’ve been worried that you’d regret moving out,” Enjolras says in a rush. “That you’d miss living there too much. I know this place isn’t very...homey, and that it’s just me here now, and I was worried that everyone being here would just be a reminder of all that.” 

“Enj, I-” Grantaire looks surprised for a moment, and then he’s striding across the room to pull Enjolras into his arms. “Enj, I wish you would have talked to me about this sooner,” he says, his chin resting on the top of Enjolras’s head as he holds him close to his chest. “I don’t like the thought of you making yourself miserable over this.” 

Grantaire leans back to see Enjolras fully, his face a perfect mixture of both sadness and overwhelming fondness. “Just ask me,” he says, and Enjolras frowns, confused. “Just ask me how I’m feeling about the move.”

Enjolras hides his face in Grantaire’s neck, feeling a little foolish at having worried himself so completely, and asks, “How are you feeling about the move?”

“I won’t lie, it’s a big change,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras feels rather than sees him smile. “But, Enj, I love that this place is just ours. I love that we can make out on the couch and no one is going to walk in on us, and I love not having to cook for eight people every time I want dumplings because of Bossuet’s goddamn-”

“House rule,” they both say together, laughing.

“It’s a lot of dumplings,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras pulls away to roll his eyes at his boyfriend.

“I know, love,” he says, having heard Grantaire complain about House Rule #39 many,  _ many _ times over their tenure at Maple St. “It’s a lot of dumplings.” 

“You know, you’d appreciate my plight a lot more if you understood the time and effort that goes into making that many dumplings,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras just laughs and wraps his arms around Grantaire’s waist a little tighter, pressing his ear to his beating heart, needing to feel him close. 

“I feel so fucking lucky that you wanted this with me,” Grantaire says after a moment, and Enjolras is glad he isn’t looking at him because he’s sure his relief would show all over his face, sure it’d be so pathetically apparent how badly he’d needed to hear that. 

“Really?” Enjolras asks because he can’t think of anything else to say, and because his voice is breaking slightly and he refuses to cry at his own party with all his friends fifty feet away.

Grantaire laughs softly, like he’s reading Enjolras’s mind, and says, “Yeah, Enj, really.” 

They’re quiet for a few moments, just standing there holding one another in the middle of their unpacked boxes, and then Grantaire is pressing his lips against Enjolras’s hairline and muttering, “Look, Enj, about earlier, I-” 

Whatever he’s going to say is drowned out by the rapid, high-pitched beeping of the smoke detector. They both jump, startled, and Grantaire curses loudly before running to the kitchen.

It seems Musichetta pulling the last dish - her grandmother’s stuffed pepper recipe, one of Enjolras’s favorites - from the oven was too much for their overly-sensitive smoke detector, and when Enjolras makes his way into the kitchen it’s to find Grantaire standing on a barstool and pulling the damned thing from the ceiling.

“Joly, if you perish in a fire tonight, Musichetta will surely come after me and avenge your death, okay?” he’s telling his worried friend below him, and though this answer doesn’t seem to provide much comfort, Bossuet’s sweet voice and gentle touch as he guides them to a seat at the dining table does the trick. 

The sun is dripping like honey from the sky by the time they all sit for dinner, saturating the room in a warm orange glow. Interesting shadows cut across the loft’s hard angles and curl around its soft contents like lazy cats, and when they move across Grantaire’s face, Enjolras feels his words catch in his throat. Someone has put on a record, the volume turned down low enough that only bits and pieces of the music is audible, filtering through the room just often enough to add some nuance to the soft voices already filling the air.

Enjolras and Grantaire are sitting at opposite ends of the table, and Enjolras is both pleased with the view and wishing he were closer. There are tall taper candles flickering between them, the wax dripping slowly down the sides, and earlier, Enjolras had watched, enraptured, as Grantaire pressed the pad of his thumb into the side of one, allowing the melting wax to drip onto his skin.

The spread is impressive, as always, their dining table completely covered with pots of still-steaming pasta resting on hot pads, with platters of roasted vegetables and baskets of warm bread. Everyone helps themselves to a little of everything, passing around gravy boats full of delicious homemade sauces. A debate quickly breaks out over which is better on asparagus - the vegan hollandaise or the lemon dill - while Grantaire, who made both, seems to delight in the chaos he’s created.

By the time the sun sets completely, they’ve all finished eating and are chatting quietly around the table, mostly-cleared plates and half-empty glasses of wine scattered around between them. 

Across the table, Grantaire is listening intently to something Feuilly is telling him, his thick, dark brows pulled together just slightly. Enjolras is struck with just how striking he is, with what a detailed, pretty story Grantaire’s features tell, and all he can think is that he loves him, he loves him, he loves him. 

“Oh my gosh! I almost forgot!” Musichetta says suddenly, clapping her hands together and getting the attention of everyone at the table. She stands then, scurrying over to the kitchen where her bag is resting on a barstool. “I found these when I was cleaning out the hall closet last week. Do you all remember when R went through that Polaroid phase?” She’s digging around in her purse as she speaks, and when she finally resurfaces, it’s with a stack of photographs tied with a rubber band. 

“Oh god,” Grantaire groans, and then everyone is talking at once, Courfeyrac making rather undignified grabby hands for them. Laughing, Musichetta sits back down and starts passing the Polaroids around the table, separating them into smaller stacks. Next to him, Combeferre gets handed a few, and Enjolras leans over to look as he flips through them.

The first one he sees is a picture of Bossuet, Bahorel, and Courfeyrac leaning heavily against the kitchen counter at the Maple St. house, all three of them shirtless and clearly hungover. Courfeyrac is flipping off the camera, his curls a wild mess on top of his head, and if Enjolras remembers correctly (and he’d be just about the only one who  _ would _ ), it was taken the morning after Marius’s 21st birthday.

“Oh my  _ god, _ ” Eponine says from where she’s perched herself on Grantaire’s lap, the two of them glancing through their own pile. “Look at little Gav with his braces!”

“This one is mine,” Courfeyrac calls, waving one of the Polaroids in the air. “Please, Chetta? It’s Ferre in a Speedo, I  _ must _ have it.” Next to Enjolras, Combeferre makes an undignified noise at this. 

“They’re R’s pictures,” Musichetta replies with a shrug, and Courfeyrac turns his puppy-dog eyes on the photographer in question. 

“Course you can have it,” Grantaire says. He smiles and adds, “Everyone should take some.”

“They’re, like, 90% Enjolras,” Bahorel says as he looks through the stack he was given, Feuilly and Jehan peeking over either shoulder to see as well, and while Bahorel is overestimating a bit, his statement is mostly true. Enjolras does feature in many of the photographs Combeferre is currently flipping through, knows he must be in many of the others his friends are looking at.

That is to say, Enjolras remembers the Polaroid phase well. 

He’d just turned 22, had been officially and wholly cut off by his parents, and he’d moved into the house on Maple for the first time. It had been full back then as well, Courfeyrac and Marius having both moved in a few months prior, bumping the headcount to six even before factoring in Eponine and Gavroche’s frequent stays.

It had been quite the adjustment, going from his own two-bedroom apartment to a house filled with seven-sometimes-nine people. Everything was louder and messier, and there was never any hot water and someone always ate your leftovers, even when they were  _ clearly marked, goddammit.  _ On the other hand, though, Enjolras’s room was right next door to Grantaire’s and his face was almost always the first one Enjolras saw when he woke up. (Years later, Grantaire would cuddle up in their bed and admit to lying awake most mornings - sometimes for hours - until he heard the trill of Enjolras’s alarm through their shared wall, just so they could bump into one another in the hallway, just so the first words a sleep-rumbled, bleary-eyed Enjolras muttered each day would be  _ good morning, Grantaire. _ )

“There’s nothing wrong with having a muse,” Jehan says sweetly, and Grantaire winks at Enjolras from across the table. 

“There is when your muse looks like this,” Eponine jokes, holding up one of the Polaroids. 

“Give me that,” Grantaire says, snatching the picture to get a closer look, his expression softening as he does. “Oh, I remember this day,” he comments, sounding fond, before passing it around the table for everyone else to see.

It’s an up-close shot of Enjolras, his hair done up in elaborate twists and plaits from the time Jehan decided to go to Cosmetology school and needed practice models. This particular photo, though, was taken the day after, his slept-on hair a knotted mess around his head, and Enjolras remembers padding next door to Grantaire’s bedroom that morning to begrudgingly ask for help untangling it, remembers sitting cross-legged on Grantaire’s bed as he sat behind him, remembers his gentle fingers as he pulled nearly fifty pins from Enjolras’s hair.

Grantaire’s only request in return had been to take his picture, and though he doesn’t say it out loud now, Enjolras remembers, vividly, the flash of Grantaire’s camera that day capturing the exact moment he realized he was in love.

Enjolras understands then, with startling clarity that almost leaves him red in the face, that he’s had it all wrong. And really, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? The house on Maple Street isn’t  _ magical _ . It doesn’t have supernatural powers or some type of secret, special luck. It’s just...a house. 

And as Enjolras looks around the table at his friends, he understands, finally, that it’s  _ their  _ magic that turned that place into a home, into a soft landing and a safe haven, and that type of thing doesn’t have limits, can’t be confined to any one place. What they have when they’re together will continue even when the last of their friends move away from Maple Street, even if Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta decide to leave it behind in the end.

Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes across the table and thinks,  _ this is it. This _ is what it means to feel completely and totally at home in yourself, in others, in your own tiny, sacred spot in the universe.

When Enjolras met Grantaire for the first time, he’d felt warm and inviting and somehow familiar - like comfort, like solace, like  _ relief.  _ All it took was for Grantaire to quirk his mouth and look at Enjolras with those dark eyes, and he’d felt stripped bare and protected all at once, like he could reveal those parts of himself that were too honest, unguarded to the point of feeling shameful, and it would be okay because he had the sturdy shelter of Grantaire around him, shielding him from the storm and hiding him from prying eyes. 

Now, Grantaire knows everything there is to know about Enjolras. He’s seen him at every time of the day, on every day of the year. He knows the worst things Enjolras has ever done, has seen him at his meanest, his lowest, his most shameful moments, and he wants him anyway. Wants him so much he’d put on a ridiculous suit, and stand up in front of everyone they love, and make it official.

Or, at least, Enjolras hopes that’s the case because- 

“Oh, my god- _ YES! _ ” he bursts out, so loud and so suddenly everyone’s eyes snap to him at once and Bossuet knocks over a mostly-empty glass of wine. “My answer is yes,” he says, and he can feel his friends’ startled looks, but he can see only Grantaire, whose face is just starting to shift from confused concern to something else. 

(Something like ridiculous, breathless happiness.)

Enjolras feels his own face split into a dazed smile, mirroring the wild grin Grantaire is wearing. Their friends are looking between the two of them, eyes darting from one exhilarated expression to the next, until finally, Courfeyrac breaks the silence.

“For the love of god, what is happening right now?” he asks, but Enjolras ignores him and so does Grantaire, the latter man standing from his seat slowly. He makes his way around the table, and when Enjolras rises to meet him, Grantaire reaches out to wrap his hands around Enjolras’s hips. 

“Yes?” he asks, and he’s smiling softer now, almost shy, and Enjolras doesn’t know how this can be the same man who’d let the proposal slip from his mouth so casually, like it was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world, mere hours ago. He just knows he loves his fucking guts. 

“Yes, a hundred times yes,” Enjolras says back, impossibly fond. “Of course it’s a yes.”

“What is a yes?!” Courfeyrac demands, sounding put out at being ignored for this long. “What are you-” He cuts himself off with a gasp. “ _ No way _ ,” he says, eyes wide. “Are you-? Did you guys just- get engaged?! Telepathically?!” 

Everyone is speaking at once then, but Enjolras can’t pinpoint a single thing they’re saying because Grantaire is reeling him until they’re flushed together and kissing him senseless. 

The chaos of voices settles into cheering and catcalls and whistling, their friends apparently deciding to celebrate now and ask questions later. When Enjolras and Grantaire finally pull apart, everyone is grinning and clapping, and Cosette is even jumping up and down in excitement while Courfeyrac and Musichetta both wipe tears from their eyes.

“Okay, okay!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “How did this happen?! Are there rings or does Enjolras have some sort of feminist qualm against that?”

“I, uh,” Grantaire stutters for a second, looking like he’s been thrown for a complete loop, even though he’s the one who asked Enjolras to marry him. “Be right back,” he says breathlessly before darting off in the direction of his studio, returning only a moment later, velvet black box in hand.

Enjolras, meanwhile, is floored. “You-?” he says, looking at Grantaire with wide eyes. “So, you  _ did _ plan this?”

“Well, not quite... _ this _ ,” Grantaire replies, sounding a little breathless. His cheeks are flushed - from the wine or the excitement, Enjolras isn’t sure, but he’s gorgeous, and that Enjolras does know.

“When I asked earlier, it kind of just slipped out and I was going to just laugh it off but then you seemed to take it so seriously, and you honestly looked like you were gonna be sick, so I freaked out a little and decided to ignore it and figure it out after everyone left and then you, well, you know.” He stops, grins wide. 

“Are you seriously saying you  _ accidentally _ got engaged?” Eponine asks, and her tone is unimpressed, but she’s smiling, one of those soft rare smiles she doesn’t give just anyone. 

“I don’t want to be accidentally engaged, I want to be on-purpose engaged,” Enjolras says then, immediately blushing when several of their friends practically coo over his words. He hadn’t meant to sound so soft, so embarrassingly sincere, but he’s never felt such overwhelming happiness before. Surrounded by his friends in his new home, everything is warm goodness and blurry edges and pleasant pressure, and he knows, beyond that, Grantaire’s walls will protect him.

“How’s this for on purpose?” Grantaire says softly and then he’s lowering himself onto one knee and taking Enjolras’s hand in his own. Around them, their friends have fallen silent, and Enjolras is sure if he were physically able to look away from his boyfriend (fiancé?!) right now, he’d see them all watching, biting back grins. Grantaire opens the box in his hand to reveal the ring, the band is thinner than most and hammered gold. “Enjolras, will you m-”

“Wait!” Enjolras says suddenly, and next to them, someone makes a noise of protest. “Wait, wait, wait! Let me do it!”

“ _ What? _ ” Grantaire laughs, the sound coming out a little watery to match the tears welling in his eyes.

“Let me do it! You’ve already done it once, it’s my turn,” Enjolras says hurriedly, pulling Grantaire up from the floor and taking his kneeled position. He’s painfully aware of all of their friends watching, can hear them chuckling at his antics, a few of them sniffling right alongside their laughter.

“You are a lunatic madman.” Grantaire laughs, but he acquiesces anyway, standing up to peer down at Enjolras. “And I love you very much.” 

“I love you too,” Enjolras says immediately. “More than anything.” At that, Grantaire reaches out to rest one hand on the side of his face and smiles like he’s trying to tear Enjolras apart. 

Enjolras takes the hand in both of his, instead, and kisses Grantaire’s palm. “Grantaire, loving you is the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I want to spend the rest of my life doing it, if you’ll let me. Will you marry me?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire kisses him like he can’t help it.

“So, is that a yes?” Enjolras asks when they finally pull away, and Grantaire laughs, bright and delighted before running a rough hand over his tear-stained face.

“I’m the one who bought the ring, Enjolras,” he says. “It’s a yes.” 

Around them, their friends are cheering again, and when Grantaire leans in for another kiss, Enjolras is suitably distracted for a few seconds until his words fully register. “Wait,” he says again, and this time, Bahorel outright groans at their display. “I don’t have a ring to give you,” Enjolras continues anyway, frowning. 

“Here!” Jehan says excitedly, and they both turn to see them pulling one of their own rings from their finger. It’s silver, with a blue butterfly on it, and as soon as they drop it into Enjolras’s hand, he turns, heart pounding, to slide it onto Grantaire’s finger. 

Or, at least, he tries to, but Jehan’s fingers are small and delicate compared to Grantaire’s large, meaty hands, so the ring only slides past the first knuckle.

“I promise, I’ll get you a new one to-” Enjolras tries to say, but Grantaire is kissing him again and again and again, and nothing seems quite as important as kissing him back. 

Later that night, after all of their friends have gone and the sink is piled high with dirty dishes, Enjolras crawls under the covers next to his fiancé and presses himself close to his bed-warm body. 

His only thought as he falls asleep is  _ god, it feels good to be home.  _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Team:** Enjolras  
>  **Theme:** home  
>  **Prompt:**  
> 


End file.
